Seen and Not Heard (6 page)

But there’d be no garden.

He still couldn’t walk into a formal garden without feeling nauseated. It was the smell of roses that got him, he realized. The sickly sweet scent of pink roses in summer that reminded him of pain and fear and death. And the stench of flesh burning his nostrils.

The roses had burned along with the orphanage. Everything had been destroyed by the fire—he could remember the blackened timbers of the old wooden building that had been his home for three years, the skeletal branches of the
rosebushes, pointing at him, the ashes of the gardener’s shed in one corner of the decimated garden. With the remains of the gardener lying there in the embers.

Grand-mère
Estelle had been found in the basement of the main building. The authorities had decided she’d fallen through when all the debris from the upper floors had collapsed. There was no need for Madame Marti to be in the cellar of the building. It hadn’t been difficult to identify her—who else would be found dead in the orphanage she’d run for more than forty years? What remained incomprehensible, and was finally dismissed with a Gallic shrug, was the peculiar condition of her body. It had taken a strong-stomached employee of the district three days to find all the pieces of Mme. Marti. They never did find her feet.

Yvon sat up, nausea churning in his own stomach. He hated remembering, hated the sick, dark clouds that beat around his head. If only Jeanne had stayed, her incessant chatter could have drowned out the steady beat of the rain against the windows. Could have drowned out the things he didn’t want to remember, drowned out what he had to do.

He moved over to the window, looking down into the wet, dirty streets. Maybe if he quit his job, moved to the country, maybe somewhere in the south. His employers thought highly of him—they’d write him a good letter of recommendation and he’d be able to find something suitable. In the south, in a climate where it seldom rained.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. It would follow him, the memories, the nightmares, the pledge he’d made so many years ago. The longer he delayed the worse it got. There was no sleep for him on rainy nights.

And every now and then, when he least expected it, he’d catch the faint, inexplicable scent of pink roses.

The rain turned to spring snow flurries that scattered in front of the fierce wind. The sun was bright yellow in a clear blue sky, and the puffy white clouds scudded along, carrying the smog with them. It was a glorious day, Claire thought as she heated the milk for Marc’s coffee. Surely nothing terrible could happen on such a beautiful day.

Nicole sat in silence, sipping at her hot chocolate, her small, spotless hands careful around the Limoges cup. Claire had wanted to get her something less fragile, but Marc had refused. “She must learn to eat and drink like civilized people, darling. It will do her no good to coddle her.”

Claire nodded, disagreeing. As far as she was concerned, Nicole could have benefited from some coddling. Not that the child would let anyone close enough to do so. Maybe her
grand-mère
would be allowed to dispense affection. Someone to fill the terrible gap left by the loss of her mother.

Nicole fixed her flat dark gaze on Claire’s face. “How did you cut your lip, Claire?” she asked, and Claire felt the color flood her face as the memory of the night before swept back through her.

Unfortunately Marc was there, listening. He dropped the paper and spoke to her in a cold, emotionless voice, and Claire flinched in silent sympathy. The relationship between father and daughter had gone from bad to worse. Marc no longer attempted to charm Nicole out of her bad moods. He was cold, clipped, distant with her, reserving his warmth and affection for Claire and Claire alone.

Whatever he’d said to Nicole had been effective. The girl’s sallow face had turned pale and her opaque eyes grew even more blank. He might just as well have slapped her across the face, Claire thought dismally.

Once more she felt that clinging sense of desperation. She knew how much Marc loved his unpromising little daughter, and yet he seemed unable to show it. He seemed removed and judgmental, yet Claire knew it was all the act of a loving man who simply didn’t know how to treat children.

During the last few months she’d tried to help, but had quickly learned not to interfere. The best the two Bonnards could do was muddle along, misunderstanding each other, wrapped in coldness, until something broke through. And that something wasn’t going to be Claire MacIntyre, no matter how much she wanted to help them bridge the gap. They simply wouldn’t let her.

Nicole muttered a graceless apology, and Marc once more disappeared behind the newspaper. Claire tried to give Nicole an encouraging smile, but Nicole swiftly turned her head away. In another, less stalwart child Claire would have thought she was blinking back tears. But as far as she knew Nicole never cried when she was awake. It was only during sleep that her formidable defenses gave way.

Claire glanced toward Marc, then looked swiftly away. The headlines of the paper were dark, bold, screaming of something ghastly. The photograph needed no translation. Another old woman had died.

It was a cold, blustery day. Not a day for a casual stroll in the park, but Marc, blessedly high-spirited, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d bundled Nicole off to her grandmother’s shortly after breakfast, then took Claire back to bed for another hour. It almost wiped out the memory of the night before. With the bright, chilly sunlight streaming in the windows Claire could almost forget the refined torture of the rain-swept night before.

The streets were empty. The day was more like January than early April, with a sharp wind whistling down the streets and around the buildings, sending a chill straight into Claire’s heart. Her silk dress provided little protection against the cold, and the high, high heels on her leather shoes were making her ankles ache as Marc drew her along at a pace just a shade too brisk for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

“Where are we going, Marc?” she demanded, pulling back. “I’m not dressed for this weather.”

He stopped, his hand still possessive on her arm, and looked at her with affectionate criticism. “Darling, my grandmother dressed in clothes that were no warmer than what you’re wearing every day of her life, and she never complained about the cold. It’s all that ridiculous central heating in America. Your blood’s gotten too thin.”

“My legs are freezing,” she protested. “At least you should have let me wear jeans.”

“You know I can’t abide trousers on women,” Marc said, his bright smile taking the sting out of the words. “Don’t complain, sweetheart. It’s just another block or two, we’ll
take a quick turn around the park, and then I’ll take you home and warm you up properly. I don’t know what’s gotten into me—I’m quite insatiable.”

Claire ignored the little pinch of dismay, smiling into those dreamy eyes that were on a level with hers. “It’s probably because you’re going away,” she said. “You know you’re not going to be having any for a while.”

“What makes you think I’m celibate when I’m away from you, Claire?” he countered gently. “Perhaps I have a new woman every night.”

She wasn’t even ruffled. “Then maybe I’d better find someone to fill in while you’re gone.”

They started back down the sidewalk, her arm tucked companionably into his. “You know I would kill you if you did.” His voice was teasing. “Don’t forget, I’m French. We’re a very jealous, passionate race.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She was relaxing, despite the cold. Marc seldom teased—life was much too serious a business for him. She loved him best when he was tender, lightly mocking. “At least, the passionate part. I’ve never given you cause for jealousy so I’m not sure how you’d be.”

“I would be dangerous.” He steered her into the park. “Very dangerous,
chérie
.”

She could have wished he’d chosen another place. Not that she was feeling guilty about the American she’d met yesterday. There was nothing to feel guilty about. It was just an innocent encounter between expatriates, an hour and a coffee ice cream cone. But Marc wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe she’d already forgotten the man’s name, the flattering warmth of his blue eyes.

“What do you suppose is going on?” Marc murmured in her ear, drawing her closer.

She would have thought the park would be deserted on such a blustery day. In part she was correct. There were no old people sitting on the benches, huddled against the sudden cold, no ice cream vendor plying his trade. In their place were close to a dozen uniformed police, with several plainclothes men just as clearly connected to the authorities.

“Let’s leave,” she said, pulling against his arm. There were other people there, a scattered crowd of curious bystanders, watching with great interest as the police milled about.

“Stay right here. I’m going to find out what’s going on.” He released her arm and headed toward the most official-looking of the men. She didn’t even consider moving, much as she longed to escape. She didn’t want to know what was going on. She wanted to keep walking on this cold, bright day and not think about the police.

She wrapped her arms around her shivering body. Marc was deep in animated discussion with the man, and she watched both, unconsciously comparing them. Marc never ceased to surprise her with his beauty. Every bone, every muscle in his body was perfectly formed, exquisitely trained. Even the unruly curl of dark hair obeyed him, landing at just the right spot in his well-shaped forehead. He caught her watching him, turned and smiled, that charming, possessive smile that never failed to warm her.

In contrast the man beside him was almost ugly. He must have been in his late fifties, with a lined, weary face and ancient eyes that had seen too much. He was tall, taller than Marc’s average height, and his shoulders were slightly stooped, as if under a great weight that he just managed to support. His clothes were rumpled, as if he slept in them, and his thinning hair needed cutting. And yet there was something about him, a hint of compassion around a grim mouth, a suggestion of morbid humor in the dark eyes, that Claire liked.

A moment later Marc rejoined Claire. The tips of his ears were red from the cold, and he rubbed his hands together briskly before once more taking hold of her. “As I suspected,” he said, looking mournful. “It’s this nasty business of the old ladies. I didn’t want to disturb you, darling, but another one was killed last night. She lived near the park, and the police suspect she might have been seen here yesterday.”

“The poor woman.” Even pulling the coat tightly around her, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

“These people are animals,” Marc said somberly. “They’re going to post a warning at the entrance to the park. The inspector told me they simply couldn’t guarantee the safety of the old people in Paris. They haven’t got the manpower.”

“How ghastly.”

“Be glad you’re thirty and not eighty.” He smiled, dismissing the morbid subject. “As long as you behave yourself you’re safe. Let’s go,
chérie
. There’s no ice cream on such a cold day, and I don’t like the way all these men are looking at you.” He pulled her up tight against him, pressing a soft, damp, open-mouthed kiss against her chilled lips.

It was too cold to respond, though she did her best. When he released her they started back toward the street. She looked about her curiously, wondering which of the busy policemen had offended Marc with his importunate eyes. They all seemed intent, unaware of the well-dressed couple heading out of the park. Marc’s paranoia, she thought, dismissing it. She should never have responded to his teasing.

Still, she could feel the eyes on her. She turned to say something to Marc, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.

The American was there, surrounded by a handful of shorter Parisians. He was looking straight at her, and his blue eyes were mournful.

Tom, his name was. Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst, she thought. And Marc had noticed him. Damn, and double damn.

“Let’s take a taxi,” she said, huddling closer to him.

Marc’s eyes clouded in surprise. “Why, darling? We’ve only a short walk.”

“Because I can’t wait to get home with you,” she said in a low voice.

He kissed her again, and she put all her enthusiasm into it, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her hips against his. When they drew apart she was breathless, and if Marc had had suspicions she’d managed to banish them. “I doubt we’ll find a taxi,” he said, “but we can always run.”

She laughed, suddenly happy. “Or at least walk very fast,” she said.

“You always do.” They hurried from the park, in perfect amity.

Louis Malgreave watched them leave. A good-looking couple, he thought. Not the sort who usually frequented this park, not the sort he ran into in the course of his days. Their kind didn’t murder, their kind didn’t rape or deal drugs. The man looked vaguely familiar, and it only took him a minute to place him. He was a mime. Marie had grown more interested in the theater, and he’d taken her to a performance of Le Théâtre du Mime last fall. He recognized the man even without the whiteface and baggy costume, recognized the bone structure and the graceful carriage. Malgreave prided himself on never forgetting anyone. In his job he couldn’t afford to.

The woman had been a question mark. English, perhaps, or American, though she didn’t have the brassy, self-assured look he associated with American women who slept with French men. Not married, he guessed. His assessing gray eyes slid over to the tall, unhappy-looking man down by the little pond. And perhaps not faithful.

That was the least of his worries. They had nothing to do with Marcelle Boisrond’s death. For the moment that was all he could allow himself to think about, not Marie at home alone on a Sunday when he’d promised to take her to see Margritte. Not curious couples walking the icy streets of Paris. Only murder.

Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst didn’t go straight home from the old people’s park. He stopped first at a bistro and drank too much wine, comfortably anesthetizing himself before he made his way back up to his artist’s garret. The wine was smooth and dry and a hundred times better than the vinegary substance produced by his own bankrupt vineyard, but for the first time in twenty-two months he longed for something harder. The smooth bourbon of his younger years, of his native Kentucky, would have blurred the edges much more effectively. Wine soured his stomach and gave him diarrhea.